


flowers and steel

by electrictrashcan



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21936742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electrictrashcan/pseuds/electrictrashcan
Summary: Pat has been in love with his prince longer than he is willing to admit. When the prince runs away, he has no choice but to follow his duty - and his heart - and find Brian.
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27
Collections: Polygolidays Gift Exchange 2019!





	flowers and steel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wenandwhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wenandwhere/gifts).

It is unequivocally true that Brian was - always will be - Patrick’s. It was not a choice by either of them; it was simply the way things are. Their lives were hopelessly intertwined, their futures parallel. Every action either took rippled through the mind and heart of the other, and they were inseparable companions, friends, confidants. It was something of a blessing, Pat supposed, that they also liked each other.

Brian’s brilliant eyes tracked the apple as it flew, shoulders and bowstring taut with anticipation. He let the arrow fly, watching as it arced carefully through the air -- and barely nicked the top of the fruit, sending it wildly off course, spinning until it hit the muddy ground with an unsatisfying _thunk_.

Pat watched, amused, as Brian kicked at the ground in frustration, before promptly reeling back in disgust as mud clung to the toe of his boot.

"_Why_ must I engage in such useless endeavors, Patrick?” he groaned, while scrubbing at his boot with no discernable results.

Pat raised an eyebrow. “I refuse to even honor that with an answer, my prince.”

Brian loped over to his knight, grinning. "But sir, I do not understand! You simply must explain me it!”

Pat ruffled Brian’s amber locks affectionately, before taking the bow from his hands and grabbing an arrow from the bag still slung across his back.

Nocking the arrow and aiming lazily at an apple still dangling from the nearest tree, Pat let it fly and pierce the fruit’s core.

Brian didn’t even bother to look away from Pat, rolling his eyes in faux anger while still shoving at his shoulder playfully.

“Just tell me what I did wrong so we can go back inside, Patrick.”

Pat sighed, handed the bow back.

“Here-” he let Brian nock the arrow and draw the bowstring back, “-your elbow is dropping-” Pat kept one arm parallel to Brian’s, other hand guiding his elbow to where it needed to be, “-which is why you’re overshooting.”

Brian inhaled audibly, adjusting his posture, before loosing the arrow. It hit the center of the apple tree, sliding into place almost silently.  
The prince let out a little cry of joy, spinning around and throwing himself into Pat. Pat grinned and let him.

“We can go inside now, right?” he asked, playing up his charm (because when wasn’t the prince wheedling the weaker willed fools of the kingdom into doing his bidding with his angelic golden eyes and ringlets of soft hair and-).

“I _suppose_,” Pat teased back, “That you have trained enough for today.”

It was true. Though Brian’s eyes remained bright and his energy boundless, there was mud caked at the joints of his leather outerwear, weariness circling his eyes. They had sparred well into the crisp afternoon, before the upsettingly damp weather had rolled into their defense practice and stubbornly stayed through the evening. Even Pat was beginning to feel the effects of the pre-winter chill in his bones.

Brian twirled and skipped through the field, skipping over creeks and bending to grab colorful flowers with the curiosity of a puppy, occasionally stopping to let Pat, at his steady plod, catch up, but never staying longer than to tuck a daisy into his damp hair and then promptly dance off.

Pat felt a smile stubbornly refuse to leave his face the entire way back to the castle, but the sight that greeted them on the far end of the drawbridge quickly sobered both of them up.

Brian fell back to walk alongside his knight as he saw the same thing. A cross-looking young woman, Brian’s splitting image, blocked the main doors, feet shoulder-width and arms crossed.

“The princeling missed supper again,” she barked, the severity of her tone undercut significantly by her over-pronounced wink. “He is to go directly to his sleeping chambers without a meal.”

Pat kept his face neutral, though watching the prince’s fairly hopeless attempt to do the same nearly caused him to lose his composure. He bowed deeply, perhaps a touch dramatically, and addressed the woman: “Our most sincere apologies, my lady. Allow me to escort the prince to his chambers posthaste.”

He moved past her, Brian following close behind, and as they crossed the threshold, he caught her mutter of _the servants have a plate for each of you in the kitchen_ before hearing the sharp _smack_ of skin on skin, presumably a reprimanding slap to the prince’s wrist from his sister.

They split off and made their way to Brian’s rooms, in the northernmost tower, Pat shooing him into his sleeping chamber and clambering his way back down the spiralling staircase and making his way to the belowground kitchen.

Easing the door open, he slid into the humid room, where cooks were still bustling about, cleaning dishes and preparing for the next day’s meals. The head cook, a furry, barrel-chested man with a thick, unfamiliar accent - presumably hailing from the Southern provinces, if the darker tone of his skin was anything to go by - was rolling out a dough, hands and apron coated in a layer of flour. Pat sneezed.

The man looked up and grinned as recognition crossed his face. “Ah! Patrick! I was told that you’se might be in need of a meal or two!”  
He turned to retrieve a large basket, which he hefted over to the knight.

“Thank you, Adam,” Pat responded, grimacing as the unexpected weight of the basket pulled at his arm. “What did you put in here, an entire pig?”  
“Aw, y’know, jus’ added a few treats that th’prince might like, yeah?” The man grinned and slapped Pat’s back heartily.

He winced internally but returned the smile with a “Sure thing, sir. And thank you kindly, as always!”  
The chef waved as Pat made his exit. “Ain’t ever a bother, mate!”

Pat shook his head as he made his way back up to Brian’s chambers. He considered Adam a friend, naturally, but the man’s personality was so big as to fill up several rooms, Pat was almost glad they only saw each other a few times a week. Although, his pastries were the stuff of legends, and Pat was ready to steal a few from his prince.

He rapped thrice on Brian’s door, to no response, before letting himself in. The boy in question was sprawled lazily across his four-poster bed, having discarded his outerwear across the floor and only wearing an unbelted tunic and threadbare pants. Pat looked determinedly away from the slight body and set the basket down on the bedside table.

Brian’s already sliding over to the food, opening the basket and grabbing the first thing he could reach, a cheese wheel. Pat just sighed in amusement and sat facing Brian, who was cross-legged on his bed and already gnawing away at his food like a rodent.

They ate in mostly silence, Brian batting Pat’s hand away from rolls and Pat stealing drumsticks back with an amused snort.

When they’d eaten their fill, Brian flung himself onto his back with a pleased groan. Pat leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head in a lazy stretch, indulging himself in a quick glance at the long line of his prince’s lithe body.

“Patrick?” Brian’s tone is surprisingly somber.

“Yes, my prince?”

“Do you-” he sighs, stops himself. “Don’t you ever just want to leave?”

Pat opens his mouth to ask what he’s on about, but Brian doesn’t even let him begin the thought.  
“Like, don’t you just want to run away? Instead of having to stay here and babysit me?”

_Of course not_, Pat wants to say. _I cannot even begin to imagine what my life would look like without you in it, nor do I ever want to find out_.

“Um,” is all he gets out. He stands, fidgets, doesn’t want this conversation to continue.  
Brian sits up, dangles his feet off the edge of the bed. His eyes are clear and bright, staring straight at Pat.

“You and I both know that bureaucracy is bullshit, and I’m never gonna be anything more than the little brother of the king, married off for a political alliance or something. I don’t want to be relegated to second hand royalty!”

Pat nodded, as he was wont to do when the prince became angry about something he agreed with. He couldn’t be too open with his anti-monarchical ideas, with his occupation and life on the line, while Brian had the freedom of being a part of that same system. Of course he had the same thoughts, and of course Brian had sprung this same idea more times than he could count.

“Patrick I know you aren’t allowed to agree with me but I know that you _do_! Why don’t you just… run away! You deserve more than having to teach me how to- to play with fucking swords!”

Pat smiled sadly. Brian was right. They were on the same page. Yet, where Brian believed that Pat should leave on his own, there was no future that Pat could see where he escaped the castle without his ward.

Brian’s fine-boned hands clenched into fists in frustration. He stood, quickly, frustratedly, angrily.  
“_Fuck_, Patrick. You shouldn’t have to deal with me. I’m whiny and useless on my own. I can’t shoot a fucking apple after twenty-three winters, and I can barely take care of myself unless you’re here!”

Brian stepped towards Pat, anger lacing his frown. Pat half-braced himself for a punch, but like an empty water skein, Brian deflated with a lone sob, collapsing against Pat’s chest, Pat wrapped his arms around the prince, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades and making gentle _shh_ing sounds.

Brian braced himself against Pat’s chest with both hands, letting his head fall against Pat’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry Patrick. Just…” Brian looked up at him with watery green eyes. “Tell me you don’t hate me, please”

Pat ached.

“Of course I don’t, sir,” he said.

Brian’s brow wrinkled in disbelief, and rushed out his next few words. “Please just call me Brian. It’s just us. You can call me Brian. It’s okay.” He sounded panicked, frenetic, like he just needed confirmation.

Pat gave a small smile. “I actually kind of like you, _Brian_.”

It wasn’t that he’d never called the prince by his first name before; when the two were younger, just friends and nothing more (and _nothing more_), they’d called each other by first name, though Brian, ever the enigma, had always called Pat by his full first name. It had been years, though, since Pat had felt like it was appropriate to address Brian as casually as he used to. Maybe it was because they were older, or not as close. Perhaps it felt too intimate. Perhaps, Pat had to isolate himself from Brian and the way he felt about him as much as possible.

Pat felt himself continuing to speak, even though he had already answered the question. “I mean, I’ve liked you enough to stick around this long. You’re my best friend, the most important person in my life. Why would I ever leave?”

Brian buried his face into the material of Pat’s shirt, muffling his voice as he responded: “Patrick… I-”

He pushed himself back to look at Pat properly, the inch of height between them alleviated by Brian’s tendency to push up onto his toes when he was anxious. His hands flitted at the hem of his shirt, fidgeting and twisting and pulling. “Will you…”

Pat waited with bated breath, kept his face carefully blank from expectation.

“Can you stay here tonight?”

It had been a long time since they had slept in the same room together (not that Pat was going to get a wink of sleep tonight if he were to stay).  
He nodded, silently, hoping the way his heart leapt in a valiant attempt to escape his ribcage wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

“Sure, Brian.”

Brian leapt back towards him for one more grateful hug, before disappearing to wash up before bed. Pat sighed and pulled off his boots, settling into the chair he’d been sitting in earlier, and pulled at the ribbon holding his hair back

Yellow flashed in his periphery, and as he turned to see what had fallen, he realized that letting his hair down had jostled the flower Brian had put there out of place. He picked it up, carefully, and placed it on the bedside table next to the leftover food. Pat smiled fondly at it, for a moment, before the _squeak_ of a closing door made him jump and look quickly towards the source of the sound.

Brian grinned impishly at the doorway, hair damp and pulled away from his face, daywear replaced with a loose nightshirt that somehow still hugged his body in a flattering way. Most of the buttons were unbuttoned. Pat could see a sprig of chest hair peeking out from behind the thin white material. (Somehow, he’d forgotten how to breathe.)

Brian padded over to his bed, still looking at Pat.

"Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” Pat responded. He felt like he was walking along the edge of a freshly smithed sword, still hot and sharp enough to bisect him if he fell the wrong way.

Brian looked the way Pat felt, like he wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how to say it, like the question sitting on the tip of his tongue might irreversibly change their lives.

Finally, though, he just whispered, “Thank you for staying, Patrick.”

Pat could only respond with a noncommittal grunt. He didn’t trust his mouth to behave dare he open it.

The prince crawled into his sprawling bed, wiggling to adjust himself amongst the pillows and quilted covers.

“‘Night,” came the small voice.

“G’night,” Pat replied gruffly. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. He listened as Brian adjusted his position once more, breathed in deeply, and let out a shaky sigh. Pat sat silently, ears straining for movement until at last, Brian’s breathing had softened and broadened, slow and a bit raspy on the exhale.

Pat dared to crack an eye open again. Brian was fast asleep, jaw slack and hands folded loosely into his chest, like he was protecting something precious to his heart. His drying locks of hair fanned out across the pillow and his long eyelashes rested against his soft cheeks.

Pat rarely permitted himself to fantasize about what he and Brian could have been (or could still be (but could never be)), because there was no use aching for a reality that could never happen. As he watched the small body curled up like a cat in the center of his bed, chest rising with each breath, twitching as he dreamed, Pat couldn’t help but imagine taking care of his prince away from the ever-watchful eye of Brian’s royalty.  
He would be a farmer, like his father before him, and carefully show Brian how to till the land, turn up the fresh, sweet-smelling dirt during planting season, turn the vegetables and roots into soups that kept chilly bellies warm through the winter. Pat would show Brian how to milk a cow, slaughter a pig, coerce a hen into giving you her egg. Brian would never have to lift a finger, because Pat would protect him. They would be free, and happy, and _together_.

Though he desperately waded his way through the fantasy, not wanting it to end, Pat felt tendrils of sleep start to pull him under. His last waking thoughts before he finally slipped into the dream world was _perhaps I should have told him._

The next morning, when Pat woke to the blinding midmorning sun flooding the room, the prince was gone.


End file.
